


Biopulse

by Lhugy_for_short



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Also Ignoct, Cyborg!Gladio, Detachable Cocks, Future Dystopia, Hacker!Prom, IDK this started out as a little thing and now it's gotten out of hand, M/M, Porn With Plot, Someday, cyborg AU, there will be more
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 16:51:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14752644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lhugy_for_short/pseuds/Lhugy_for_short
Summary: Prompto's a whiz when it comes to computers, but he's only ever used his powers for good - and, well, maybe to blackmail the occasional politician.Until, that is, a cyborg from the future shows up to stop him from destroying the world, and he's left wondering just how he got himself into this mess in the first place.





	Biopulse

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this, other than I saw Deadpool 2 and was inspired because cyborgs are hot %D Expect more porn in the future (and maybe plot, too, what the heck)

The apartment door creaked on its hinges, splintered, and dropped to the floor, kicking up dust from the debris that had, until a moment ago, been a functioning wall. Now it was little more than ruins, half of the plaster blasted away in an explosion that had taken out much of the hallway as well. Shouts rang out, panic in the midst of the sudden attack, but they were distant, removed; backdrop for the  _ real  _ horror, which was standing amidst the rubble like a hulking, metallic beast. 

Half-man, half-machine. 

From under thick, untamed eyebrows, the figure’s gaze pierced through the smoke. His left eye whirred, the only sound in the room above the chaos of the building, and glowed red-orange as it scanned for signs of life. 

_ There  _ \- huddled under the cables and wires of a computer desk, hands trembling around the handle of a cheap revolver - was his target. 

The figure stepped forward. Heavy boots crushed wood and drywall alike, echoing the hum of metal limbs in motion, until he was close enough to close his fist around the barrel of the gun. 

In a thrumming voice, he said he’d come from the future to save humanity from extinction. 

And that’s when Prompto knew things were going to get weird. 

* * *

He’s been sleeping in the back of the stolen car for three weeks now. It wouldn’t be so bad, Prompto thinks, if he’d also thought to steal a blanket, a pillow, and maybe some cushions to cover up the springs poking through the seat under his butt.

Oh, and maybe a roof. That’d certainly be an improvement over the gaping hole overhead where Gladio had ripped theirs off. Sure, at the time (when those assholes with the giant guns had been chasing them) it had seemed like a fine idea. And honestly, watching a cyborg super soldier tear apart a car with his bare hands had...done things to Prompto.  _ Weird things.  _

But now, without the roof, there’s nothing to keep out the chill after the sun goes down. 

To be fair, it’s not  _ all  _ Gladio’s fault. Even if he hadn’t shown up out of the blue, blasted off half of Prompto’s apartment, and threatened to kill him for the sake of the future, things would have turned out just as crummy. The problem, of course, is that his intel had been wrong -  _ all of the intel was wrong _ \- because Prompto hadn’t done a damn thing. 

But whoever had, they’d done a bang-up job of it. 

The day Gladio arrived was the day it started. First, one by one, the social media sites went down. Then the telecom. Then the government databases, falling like dominos to a unknown, unnamed hacker. World leaders were quick to blame each other. Tempers flared and shots were fired, as panic erupted among the people. No banks, no records, no  _ knowing what the hell was going on _ ; the very technology civilization had been built on collapsed overnight. 

Of course, Gladio had seen it coming. Knew exactly how it would play out, hour by hour, and where to take Prompto that they might survive the worst of it. That’s how they ended up on the run, in a stolen car far from Insomnia, while the rest of the world fell into anarchy. While civilians killed each other and bombs flew; while buildings toppled and the wars began. 

Then, in the midst of it all, one name had appeared, scrawled in a mix of oil and blood across the facade of the fallen Citadel:  _ Argentum.  _

Prompto had done nothing. He was only a self-taught hacker with a habit of exposing politicians’ dirty secrets - not a mastermind, and certainly not a killer. But there was his name, spelled out for all to see, all to blame, and suddenly the only one on his side was the cyborg who’d come to stop him in the first place. 

Gladio had...apologized. Profusely. 

He’s also saved his life on at least six different occasions by now, so Prompto tries not to hold the whole apartment-blasting, death-threatening, crazy-future-robot nonsense against him. To err is human, after all, and Gladio (as far as he can tell) is at least a third flesh and blood. Mostly his right side, where from the shoulder down to his hip he’s all muscle, sinew, and bronzed, tattooed skin. 

In contrast, his left side looks like a computer got into a fight with a scrap heap: stiff metal plates, interlocking and individually controlled, move over an underlayer of wires, cords, gears and sockets. Prompto isn’t sure how deep the skeletal frame beneath runs, but wherever metal meets skin there are painful-looking scars. Jagged, raised. Almost as if his body had been torn apart and welded back together again, machines replacing him piece by missing piece. 

It’s the one thing Prompto has yet to ask him about. He isn’t sure he’s ready for the answer. 

After a while longer, the springs digging into his back finally get the better of him, and Prompto pushes up and off the worn leather seat. Stars glitter overhead as he slides out of the car (there’s no door on the right side, either - same reason, different fight) and pads his way barefoot over the hard, dusty ground. Over to the form of Gladio sitting, unmoving, with his legs swung over the side of the ledge, gaze lost somewhere in the haze of light on the distant horizon.

_ Insomnia.  _ His hometown, too, or at least what’s left of it by then. 

“Can’t sleep, big guy?”

Offering a smile, Prompto settles down on the ground next to him and folds his legs under his rear. It’s uncomfortable, he thinks, but at least it’s warmer than the alternative. Though not quite as warm as the flesh-and-blood arm that moves automatically to envelop him, or the tug of emotion in the corner of Gladio’s mouth before he speaks. 

“Not for about eighty years now, actually.  _ You _ , on the other hand….“ He turns, favoring Prompto with both his human and his mechanical eye. “You should be resting. It’s late.”

“I got cold,” the blond admits with a shrug. It’s not exactly a lie, but he still doesn’t know how to explain anxiety to a cyborg. “Figured you might want some company, something to talk about. It’s gotta get boring just staring at nothing all night.” 

Gladio shakes his head as that arm around him tucks in, pulls him closer into welcoming warmth. “This isn’t nothing, Prom, not to me. In my time, all of this -” he explains, sweeping his metal hand out over the dark, dusty plains of Leide between them and the Crown City. “Just ruins. There’s no beauty left, nothing to remember the world before the Fall. I’m trying to enjoy it now while it still lasts.”

For a moment, Prompto says nothing. Instead leans in against the firm body beside him, head coming to rest on Gladio’s shoulder in what he hopes is a gesture of comfort. He’s heard, after all, what things are like in the not-so-distant future. How bleak and how lawless the survivors have become by the time the dust settles. How soldiers are made by the hundreds out of the ruined scraps, cybernetic fighters tasked with protecting their creators, or killing anything in their path. 

It’s a future he’s decided he doesn’t want to see. 

Gladio’s human fingers twine with his where they lay, pressed between their thighs for warmth. He feels the cyborg shift, at last pulling his gaze away from the distant city lights to regard him instead. “You’re cold?” 

“A little.”

“Come here.” For such a massive, powerful machine, Gladio is surprisingly gentle when he handles Prompto. Lifts him carefully up off the ground and into his lap, back curled to his chest, and winds both arms around him in place of a blanket. Even the metal parts of him are warm - an effect, he’s explained, of the biocircuits that run throughout his entire body - and Prompto settles against him easily. Smiles in return as he traces the raised plates of Gladio’s forearm, and looks out over the moon-drenched expanse of Leide. 

“Thanks. For everything,” the blond whispers. Beneath him, the cyborg hums. 

“Rest, if you can. I’ll wake you in the morning.” 

To the rhythmic sound of Gladio’s biopulse, whirring like a distant, tiny engine in his chest, Prompto gradually lets his heavy eyes fall closed. Drifts off to sleep knowing he’s safe, protected,  _ warm  _ in the arms of a cyborg. 

* * *

Lestallum is a shit show. Long before the collapse of social order, the city had been rampant with murder, drugs, and an underground black market. Now, without even the Empire to keep the crime in check, lawlessness is the way of the streets. 

Prompto watches from the window of their room - formerly the  _ Leville _ , now a filthy dump run by the local crime lord - as Gladio handles business. He’s talking with a heavyset man, both of their voices low but hurried in the empty courtyard, and something exchanges hands between them. 

_ The chip _ . 

Gladio nods his head. The other man appears to fade back into the shadows of the alley, and then the cyborg is on the move again, keeping careful watch on all fronts while he makes his way back to the hotel. 

The moment the door opens, Prompto is on him. “You were gone too long. I got worried,” he sighs into the side of his rough-shaven neck.  

“You? Were worried about me?” But Gladio hugs him anyway, his left eye glinting with something like amusement. “I can handle myself, Prom.”

“I know, but.” He stops, shakes his head and, as if suddenly realizing how close he’s gotten, puts a couple of inches between him and the cyborg. “It’s fine. Did you get it?” 

Gladio reaches into the inside pocket of his open vest, metal fingers closing carefully around a small package. It’s wrapped in cellophane, takes a moment to unravel but when he’s done, the chip is deposited right into Prompto’s waiting hands. Small, unassuming - and possibly humanity’s last ticket to salvation. 

Assuming they can get it to Hammerhead in time 

“Are you sure this thing will work?” Prompto asks, probably for the dozenth time, as he weighs the chip in his hand. How something so tiny could contain enough data to lift the Citadel back to its knees is staggering even for someone like him. 

His companion, it seems, shares his uncertainty. “I don’t know,” Gladio shrugs. “But I do know what will happen if we don’t try. Are  _ you _ sure your friend’s server is still accessible?”

“Maybe?” Actually, it’s a long shot. Cindy’s garage is too near Insomnia, too close to the brunt of the fighting; and even if her private network hasn’t been compromised, there’s no way of knowing how long her generators will last. Their last chance doesn’t feel much like a  _ chance  _ at all. 

But Gladio’s right. They won’t know until they try, and they can’t try until they make it to Hammerhead. The road awaits them again at first dawn’s light. 

Until then, Prompto thinks, following Gladio with his eyes as the cyborg takes a seat on the edge of the mattress, there’s  _ other business _ he’s been meaning to attend to. 

“How’s your wrist?” he asks by way of conversation, and gestures to Gladio’s robotic arm. There’s a gash there, jagged where the metal had been peeled back in their last fight. The fucker who’d knifed him hadn’t lived long enough to see the damage he’d wrought, but Prompto knows Gladio can feel the damage. Even if it isn’t flesh and blood, the injury still cripples his strength, leaves his arm vulnerable should another bad guy try to put a blade through him. “Cid’ll be able to help. He can fix anything, I’m sure a cyberlimb will be a piece of cake for a guy like him.” 

“Prompto.” Amber eyes settle on him, one deep, one glowing. Gladio has finished removing his boots and is leaning back comfortably in the bed. “You don’t have to worry about me. I can ta--”

“ _ Take care of yourself _ . Yeah, I know, you remind me all the time.”

“And yet you still worry. I’m beginning to wonder if your wiring isn’t coming loose.” He smirks at the way Prompto’s cheeks flush, and instantly reaches out with his flesh hand to touch the reddened freckles there. “Sorry. Cyborg humor.”

“Gladio….” He’s caught between laughing and burying his face deeper against that warm palm. Somehow, with little effort, he manages both. “For a super computer, you’re so stupid sometimes.”

“Super  _ soldier _ .”

“Super _ stupid _ .” Now it’s Gladio’s turn to laugh, a deep thrumming sound that carries Prompto down into his lap along with it. The blond flicks his tongue out over pink lips - Gladio’s gaze follows. He isn’t sure whose mouth surges forward to meet the other’s first, but suddenly they’re kissing, all the energy and heat and tension spilling over in a single moment while their lips meet. 

They’ve kissed before, yet every time it happens it still takes Prompto’s breath away. Leaves him wondering, with all of Gladio’s machinery and metal parts, just how much of him is left  _ alive.  _ How much he can still feel with that whirring biocore of a heart, and if he still  _ needs  _ like humans do. 

If he can return love. 

Because while they’ve kissed in the heat of the moment, and held each other close in the dead of night, Prompto still isn’t sure what it means. But here, in this empty, humid hotel room, the questions have caught up with him. 

At least one of them is easy enough to answer. With his hand on the metal plate of the cyborg’s chest, Prompto can feel every hum and whirr of the mechanics beneath his fingertips. The signs of Gladio’s core, reacting to their kiss as eagerly as any carbon-based heart. And indeed, when he forces himself away from those lips, it’s to see Gladio watching him, his single, amber iris nearly swallowed up in black. 

Somehow, It’s always ended here. They’re always on the run, always looking for the next break, the next the town, the next exit ramp. There are always more MTs dogging their heels. But not here, not tonight. Tonight they’re safe - as safe as can be in a world that’s collapsing around them - and Prompto doesn’t want to stop this time. 

He reaches for Gladio’s lap. Hooks his fingers in the hem of his leather pants and searches for any signs of hesitation in the gaze that watches him. Finds none, and lets the momentum carry him forward, forward, until he’s pressing his lips to the warm metal of Gladio’s chest. It’s vibrating for him, tastes like copper and smoke as he drags his tongue along the ridges of each plate; over to the jagged contrast of scar tissue that separates the man from the machine, and feels the way Gladio tenses at the touch. 

“Prompto.” 

Blue eyes lift to meet him even as his mouth dips lower. 

“I--” Gladio quickly swallows back the rest. Reaches up to card his calloused fingers through blond locks instead while his words are reprocessed. “It’s been a long time. I haven’t…. Not since  _ this. _ ” With his metal hand, he gestures to the left side of his body -  _ plates and wires and melted flesh _ \- and Prompto thinks he gets the picture.

“We can go slow.” 

But the cyborg shakes his head. “No, I mean…. I want to make sure.” Once again, Gladio’s fingers comb back through his hair; guide his face up to look him in the eyes, a mix of concern and desire written there. “I don’t want you to regret this.” 

Pale fingers move with practiced, if rusty, ease. Catch the button and then the zipper of Gladio’s pants, tugging it down over the hardness he can feel beneath the surface, and Prompto smiles up at him. A genuine smile, as if the darkness outside the window, the toppled cities, the roads ahead are distant, unable to reach them inside this solitary moment. “If the world is gonna end anyway,” he says. “The only thing I’d regret is missing this chance, big guy.”

Half of the cyborg’s face darkens in a blush - one that’s deepening the second Prompto drags supple leather down and over his hips. The metal plating, it seems, continues below the belt, right to where one cybernetic thigh connects by biocables to the rest of him. But between his legs, Prompto notices he’s been mercifully left intact; his cock swells thick and veined there, filled with the synthetic replicant that’s replaced his blood, though the effect is the same. Even the head of it is a familiar shade of red, and Prompto can’t help but lick his lips at the sight.

There’s no resistance when he kneels down at the edge of the mattress for closer look. In his hair, Gladio’s fingers continue to stroke a steady rhythm - encouraging, but nervous - as he draws the tip into his mouth. Sweeps his tongue over the flesh of it and tastes him here too - not quite the sharp bitterness he might have expected, but a subtle, coppery twang, rather like the metal of his chest plate. A flavor that’s uniquely  _ him,  _ and Prompto hums around it. 

Gladio’s cock hums back. 

Practically  _ vibrates _ with the echo of it, in fact. 

At the unexpected sensation, Prompto pulls back. Stares in surprise and fascination as the organ whirrs again, clicks several times at the base, and releases with a hiss of air. Blue eyes go wide. 

Now he can clearly see where a ring of titanium encircles the base, gripping it like the end of some kind of cock-shaped conduit. Where he’d assumed the flesh of Gladio’s groin was whole, there’s actually an indentation of metal and interconnecting plugs; an attachment port that  _ someone  _ evidently went to a lot of trouble to design. 

Prompto somehow, in his shock, manages to keep from laughing. 

“Er, they said...there’d be some modifications...,” Gladio mutters from above him, obviously straining to conceal his mortification. “Prom, I understand if you don’t want to -- “

“Hey.” A rogue lock of blond is tucked behind his ear, and Prompto’s smile returns. “I want to. Just tell me what feels good, okay?” 

The answer is, apparently,  _ everything _ . Even with his cock half-detached from his body, Gladio can still feel each pass of Prompto’s tongue, each swirl of it against the underside or the tip. Still groans when those pink lips slide down to the metallic base, and the wet heat of Prompto’s throat closes around him. Feels more alive in those few moments of breathtaking pleasure than he has in decades.

Prompto knows it because Gladio tells him so, in a voice like gravel with his fingers buried in soft, yellow hair.


End file.
